1st after Christmas. Work nights again. Quite uneventful really and I knicked off home at 10.30 quite unnoticed by the half-doped journalists who remain. Feel miserable sat on the bus and realise only too well that Christmas is over for yet another year.
See the end of a Humphrey Bogart film and retire to bed. A relief that I do not have to work again until next year ... Jan 2, to be exact.
Oh, I've forgotten to mention that I have been looking after the Walton's keys next door while they went off to see relatives in Colchester. OK, what's startling about that? Well, last night they were burgled, by burglars no less! Mum is on the verge of a breakdown from the trauma and excitement of it all.
Uncle Peter arrived just before lunch.
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Monday March 2, 1987
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